“What does it say?” Portia asked, her voice trembling. Cordelia gathered her sister’s hands in hers, urging her to sit down. Portia shook her head, seating herself on the edge of the settee. She bit the end of her thumbnail as the company watched Mr. Wright’s eyes move down the page.
“It… it appears to be some sort of riddle.”
Chapter Eight
“Riddle?” Peverill asked.
“Yes… apparently anyone who can solve it will be led to a trove of jewels belonging to the Rothesay dukedom,” Justin said, holding out the piece of paper so Peverill could examine it himself. “He makes it clear that the fortune goes to the first person who uncovers them.”
Portia snatched it out of his hand. He heard Peverill sigh. “Bloody hell,” she said, in that strange way of hers. “Father must have written this before he died.”
“Is it in his hand?” Cordelia added, going to stand beside her sister. They held it up to the light, examining the elegant scrawl with a practiced eye.
“And here I was thinking my trip back to England would be restful and dull,” Peverill said.
“Here I thought I inherited something worthwhile,” Justin commiserated. He grabbed the crystal tumbler and refilled his glass. The brandy was smooth with a delicate taste and must have cost more than a year of his wages. “I should have known better than to call you to my aid; you’re always bringing trouble with you,” he added.
Peverill smiled. “And leave you to have all the pretty downtrodden maids for yourself?”
Justin raised an eyebrow but did not have the chance to counter him.
“It is truly his hand,” Cordelia said, walking over to where they stood.
“And so, my work here is finished,” Mr. Ingram declared. He pointed to a series of papers that were balancing precariously on an upholstered chair. “I would suggest you read those documents carefully, Your Grace. My offices are in Hatfield. I beg you to call on me should you need any further legal advice.”
“I’m not certain a scavenger hunt for the family heirlooms is totally legal,” Justin said, taking his calling card.
The solicitor spluttered, his cheeks reddening. “Your Grace, let me assure you that I tried to persuade the late duke to—”
“Yes, yes, I understand,” Justin said. He clapped the solicitor on the back, causing the man to cough. “Thank you for your help, Ingram.”
A footman ushered the little gray man from the room. When the door closed, it seemed like everyone slumped into the nearest chair.
“Well, what does it say anyway?” Peverill asked.
Cordelia cleared her throat and began to read:
“Eyes right, my jolly field boys,
Who British bayonets bear,
To teach your foes to yield boys,
When British steel they dare!
Now fill the glass, for the toast of toasts
Shall be drunk with the cheer of cheers,
Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!
For the British bayoneteers”
“It appears to be some sort of song,” Portia said, “though I’ve never heard it in my life.”
“I have,” Justin and Peverill replied at the same time.
Cordelia cocked her head and drew her eyebrows together.
